


fallen in love with a girl on the run

by supernatasha



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Death, F/M, Modern Era, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:52:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernatasha/pseuds/supernatasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Arya visits Gendry and the one time Sansa does.</p><p>She doesn't ring the doorbell, only pounds on the door with both fists until he jerks awake and opens the door of his flat, expecting an emergency of some sort. But then, she's always an emergency.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fallen in love with a girl on the run

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by "Devil's Backbone" by the Civil Wars.

_She was raised on the edge of the devil's backbone  
Oh I just want to take her home._

::

The first time she comes to him after running from the police, there is blood on all her clothes – not her blood, he can tell. Blood all the same. She doesn't ring the doorbell, only pounds on the door with both fists until he jerks awake and opens the door of his flat, expecting an emergency of some sort.

But then, she's always an emergency.

She has a crazed grin on her face, leaning against the doorframe in her too-large leather jacket, and asks, "Can I use your laundry machine?"

"Arya, fucking hell," he groans. "What happened?"

"Don't ask," she shrugs, letting herself in. He doesn't ask and he never will again in the future. Arya isn't in the habit of repeating herself. She finds the machine herself, shucking her jacket to the hardwood floor and peels out of the shirt and tank top underneath, soaked through with blood. Tucked into her waist, she pulls out a knife and lays it gently beside the jacket. She shimmies out of her jeans next, leaving her in just her underwear and bra and leaving Gendry's jaw on the floor.

"I wasn't actually sure if you had a machine," she continues, not paying attention to him as she pours out detergent, "but I remembered you bitching about the noise it makes. Good thing you complain, huh?"

Gendry hasn't seen her since the funeral, since she stood stony faced, watching her father and mother and brother lowered into the dirt. He had tried to talk to her after, but she had turned away and ran out of her house and she'd been missing for about a week. Until now, of course.

He tries not to stare at the swell of her breasts and the smooth skin of her stomach, at the tattoo of the running wolf rippling between her shoulder blades as she shuts the lid. She had held his hand when she got the tattoo and he couldn't write for nearly a week afterward. "Arya," he starts and his voice is hoarse, but he stops because he doesn't really know what to say.

She turns the dial and the machine begins with its usual perfunctory gurgled whine. She faces him and catches him gaping. "What, these?" Arya asks, fingering the hem of her underwear. "These are Italian silk, hand wash only. Sansa brought them for me when I turned fifteen and she'd kill me if I ruined them. I'll do them in the tub."

"Okay," he agrees, which is blatant bullshit because nothing is okay.

She saunters past him and opens the fridge, leaving a crimson handprint on the handle, and grabs a can of beer. "Why do you buy this brand? It tastes like shit."

"It's cheap," he mutters, joining her in the dining area, or whatever the hell that unnamed place between his sink/fridge and his tv/sofa is. "Anyway, my flat, my beer."

"Well, you're my fucking friend and I hate that you buy shitty cheap beer."

"Maybe you should do my groceries for me," he snaps. "Either that or shut the fuck up and drink it."

Arya puts the unopened can on the counter and fixes her steel grey eyes on him. Yeah, she always talks shit about his taste, but he's certainly picked the wrong time to lash out about it. She takes a step forward so she's just about level with him, and asks, "Did you just tell _me_ to shut up?"

He thinks of the knife lying beside her leather jacket, of the blood on her clothes. He thinks of her Italian silk underwear. "I did. Pretty sure I meant it too."

She smirks and kisses him, sudden and fierce, and pushes him back against the counter so it digs in painfully. Gendry grabs at her short hair, at her shoulders and the back of her neck, and pulls her closer. Her fingers fumble at his zip and he can't find the fucking clasp of her bra, but eventually, the clothes are pooled on the floor and she's pressed back against the wall beside the counter.

It's not his first time, but it's not hers either. They just needed to find this moment.

Her lips worry at his clavicle when he slowly eases into her wet warmth, and she hisses, "Faster."

Gendry increases pace, and she moans with her head thrown back, nails embedded into the skin of his hips and scratching upward. She tastes like metal and blood, like panic and desperation, when he brings his lips to her, and she inhales sharply with each erratic thrust. Her body is sticky with dried blood and sweat.

He comes first, groaning and his legs buckling under her weight. She guides one of his hands to her clit, presses his fingers in until her back arches and from her trembling lips comes a gasp, a soft, "Oh _fuck,_ Gendry."

He lets her down by the tips of her toes, suddenly self-conscious. Just like that, the moment's over. Arya goes to pick up her underwear and asks as she slides it on, "You got any cigarettes?"

 _This,_ he thinks, _is not an appropriate reaction to your missing best friend showing up at your doorstep in blood dripping clothes._

He clears his throat and follows her to his room, stepping over the bra still lying on the floor, where she's rifling through the drawers of his nightstand. She comes up victoriously with a lighter and a plastic baggie with a neat bundle of joints. "You've been holding out on me!"  

"I didn't know," he says, "I didn't even know you liked me."

She stares at him for a moment before lighting the edge of the paper. It makes a crackle when she inhales, the tip glowing bright. "You never asked," she passes him the spliff and he takes a drag, watches the smoke curl up from her wet lips and impulsively kisses her again.

He had always yearned for her in the past and she had never shown him the last bit of interest. But now – oh, tonight, it's _all_ she does. Maybe it's the blood that made her realize it, maybe it's the knife. Maybe it's the fact that he has a laundry machine in his flat.

In the end, she does end up washing her underwear in the sink and she does end up drinking his cheap beer.

::

The second time, she has a black eye. She stands at his door, hugging herself, and shivers.

"What the fuck, Arya? Did you walk through the rain?" he demands, letting her in.

"I ran, actually," and she manages to give him a smile, even though she winces immediately after. There's a gash above her eye. Her lower lip is split down the middle and there's blood on her teeth, more of it in rivulets down her chin mixed in with the rain. The wound looks fresh.

He feels a strange pain in his chest seeing Arya like this, like her skin shouldn't be broken, like she shouldn't be cold and exhausted, like there shouldn't be missing pieces. He tells her, "Stay here; I'll get the first aid kit."

But she shakes her head and says despite chattering teeth, "No, no, I just need a hot shower. Could you put the kettle on?"

Gendry nods and she goes on her way. Some of her things are still in the flat from when she used to come around before. Emergency clothes, a toothbrush. She should be fine. He does as she asks, laying out biscuits and going through his fridge for yesterday's takeaway, which he reheats in the microwave. He does get the first aid kit, no matter what she says. She looks a bit better when she comes out, his biggest towel wrapped around her torso, her short choppy hair dripping.

"You'll need a plaster on that," he mumbles, pointing at the cut just below her eyebrow.

Arya ignores him and digs into the food, occasionally asking him about work at the garage, or if he's up to anything, or if he's seen Sansa around.

Work is fine; he just sits around at home watching telly ( _waiting for you_ , he doesn't say); no, he hasn't seen Sansa but he bumped into Jon at the petrol station. They're all okay. They miss her. They think she might be dead.

She shrugs the concern off like an errant piece of lint and finishes eating. Gendry daubs at the cut on her eyebrow with hydrogen peroxide soaked gauze. She sits there stony faced and lets him take care of her. They don't talk and the only sound is the deafening rain and their quiet controlled breathing. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asks as thunder rumbles outside.

Arya takes his wrist and tugs. "Come on. Come to bed."

"Let me clean this up," he gestures to the dishes.

"You'll have plenty of time later," she murmurs and drags him by the hand to his bedroom, leaving the towel somewhere along the way. He wants to ask how she knows he'll have time later, but of course, it's Arya. She knows everything.

This time is not like the first time. There are no sudden turns, no slamming against walls and breathless crashing down of lips – only soft gossamer grazes. They explore. They linger, limbs sluggish, tongues soft against flesh. She's pale and wan and it feels like her flesh is stretched gaunt over every bone to its very limit. Gendry's fingertips run over the wolf on Arya's back, feeling the slightly raised skin, tiny goosebumps. She lies back on his bed with the lights off and her voice cracks when she moans his name, his fingers between her thighs.

He kisses down the tendons of her neck and she growls, "Not there. Bruises."

"Bruises?" he looks up.

"Shut up," she mumbles and her fingers tangled in his hair push lower. Gendry lets her, licking down her flat stomach and pausing at her hipbones, stopping at last at her cunt. She whimpers with his first touch, back arching off the mattress. He sucks lightly at her clit, slipping one finger inside and is rewarded with Arya hissing through clenched teeth. Within seconds, her fingers knot in his hair, turning into fists so his scalp aches like it's going to come right off his skull. Heedless of his pain, she comes trembling against his mouth.

Arya's fingers relax and blood rushes back into his temples. He sighs and comes up to kiss her and she spends far too long not kissing him back, just… lying there breathing hard. Gendry thinks she might be done for the night but then she asks, "Have you got any condoms?"

He leans away and finds some in the bottom chest of his drawers and she smiles for the first time that night.

She's still hungry later and Gendry makes sandwiches for both of them. They eat in bed with the plate on their thighs, and he talks quietly about how Hot Pie's dating a girl with pink hair, his strange new neighbors who call themselves _the_ _Brotherhood,_ about the football match and how he was planning on watching it at the pub. "Will you come with me?" he asks all too hopefully.

Arya laughs, doesn't even bother to answer him. He thought she was arrogant before; now she's reckless as well. He worries for her. Whatever she does when she's away, it gives her split lips and black eyes and it gives him absolute fucking hell.

She sleeps curled up on her side and he wraps his body around her skinny one and falls into a restless sleep hours later.

When he jerks awake, she's pulling on a shirt of hers she'd left at his flat forever ago. It hangs off her frame. She's lost weight. The rain outside has stopped. He sits up and yawns, long and languid, mumbling, "Leaving already?"

"I'm not nearly close to done yet," Arya answers without looking. She's wearing a pair of his boxers. "I'm borrowing some things from you."

"I noticed," he answers dryly as she pulls on a pair of his trousers that haven't fit him in ages. They just manage to fit her. He follows her out of the bedroom and to the door, realizing with a sudden pang that she's getting ready to leave. He considers begging her to stay, begging her not to get hurt again, asks instead, "Am I gonna see you again?"

"You think you're not? That's sweet, but you can't get rid of me so easily." Arya kisses him hard, tongue moving in tandem against his, and bites his lower lip until he can feel the skin break under her canines and he has to pull away in pain. "You and I, we're gonna grow old together."

"That fucking hurt," he snaps, feeling the sensitive skin of his lip with his tongue. The taste of blood floods his mouth.

She smirks. "I know. Now you know how I feel," and slams the door so hard his walls shake and dust comes sprinkling from the ceiling like the first snows of winter.

::

There's a brown paper bag in her hands when he opens the door the third time. He looks down at it and up at her. The bridge of her nose looks bumpy, like someone had set a broken nose the wrong way and it healed crooked. Her black eye has faded to the slightest yellow in the fortnight she was gone.

"Why don't you ever use your fucking key?" He grumbles and gestures to the bag. "What is that?"

She doesn't answer, moves closer and kisses him, and pulls up his shirt. She slams the door shut with her foot and he steps backward until the back of his knees hit the couch and he goes down, sprawled across the old cushions. Arya pulls down his jeans and his boxers, pulling off that same old leather jacket she stole from her older brother that still doesn't quite fit her around the shoulders.

He's missed this so much, more than he had ever thought he _could_ miss anything. Not the sex, but her. The way she looks with short strands of hair clinging to the sides of her face, her scent, her warmth, the weight of her arse over his cock, the way she looks at him with her teeth all sharp and her nails prepared to dig in like a demon, like a vampire, like a question waiting to be answered.

Fuck the metaphors – he doesn't want to _define_ her, he just _wants_ her.

His hands run over ragged fabric and tug the edge of her top up and off her body. She's not wearing Italian silk this time, is wearing nothing. Arya slides down her jeans and lowers down onto his cock.

Gendry grabs her around the waist and moves on top so her head sinks into the plush cushion of the sofa. He cants his hips unexpectedly and she cries, "Ow!" but when he stills mid-stroke, she glares at him and says, "You fucking stop now and I'll kill you."

He can just make out the long blue bruise across her rib that looks too much like the imprint of a boot to be anything else. If he brings it up, he knows it'll piss her off. So he simply slows his pace and buries his face in the crevice of her neck, keeping his weight on his elbows.

Afterward, lying across his chest, she says like an afterthought, "There's money in the bag. I want you to give it to Sansa."

He chews on his lower lip. "Your family's well off. They don't need money; they need their sister."

"I _know_ ," she snaps, looking cross. "But I… I just want them to have something from me. I dunno, leave it on the doorstep or something. They'll figure out it's from me."

"I can't get anywhere near your house. Your dogs would eat me alive."

She laughs and he thinks it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard. It feels like years since Arya has laughed properly, since before her parents and brother died and they were just stupid kids getting pissed at the pub. "That's true. There's a bundle of notes in there for you too."

"What? Why?"

"I'm finally doing your fucking groceries so you don't have to buy shitty beer," she kisses his jaw. "How are they doing?"

He sighs and wraps his arms around her, closing his eyes contentedly. "I had coffee with Sansa last week. She said Jon got a job with a private security firm. Bran's thinking about doing philosophy at Uni; Rickon's on the football team."

"And Sansa, what's she up to? Still with the interior designing?"

Gendry can tell she's looking at him so he opens his eyes and hesitates. "She's getting married. She invited me to come, said it'd be the closest thing to having you there if I showed at the wedding."

"To who?" Arya asks sharply. "Not Joffrey?"

Gendry can feel her body tense, her voice raise in pitch and reverberate through his chest. "No, not him. They broke it off a while back. Some other fellow named Sandor. Bearded guy, scars on his face."

"You met him?"

"He came to pick her up. On a motorbike."

"A bike?" Arya looks mildly impressed as she sits up. "Did she seem happy?"

"She did, actually. Why? Are you worried for you sister?" he tries to pass it off as a joke, a taunt, though he's genuinely curious.

Arya makes a sound in her throat, dismissive. "Nah. Sansa's a big girl. I trust her enough to take care of herself. Remember I was always the problem child?" He does remember, her nightly complaints about her mother said this and her father forbade that, lovely Sansa and perfect Robb. Arya adds, "And besides, now you can buy her something really nice with the money and call it a wedding gift since I _know_ you're not going to miss going, even if you have to wear a tie. You'll bring me a slice of cake though, yeah?"

He doesn't miss the veiled threat in her words. Gendry laughs and pulls her closer, though there is no more closer to pull unless he slices his skin open and burrows her a nest between his ribs. "I will," he promises.

::

She looks happy the next time. No bloody clothes to wash, no guns and no knives. Her hair is longer and her skin is flawless, not a single scratch or wound. "I'm almost done," she tells him when he opens the usual pounding at the door he has come to expect, and launches into his arms.

"About time," Gendry grins and, even though he just got back from work and is getting grease from his hands on her waist, he carries her to the kitchen in his arms because it's been too fucking long since she's been away.

She licks the icing off the slice of Sansa's wedding cake he'd brought back. It's squished and going stale despite Gendry's best efforts, but Arya doesn't seem to mind. They both drink too much liquor until they sway, Arya in long thirsty swallows without hesitation, even though the liquid burns its way down Gendry's throat. It makes him wonder how she's been eating when she's away from him, makes him wonder if she's shrinking under the weight of her loneliness and silence, of all the things she won't tell him.

Later, in bed, he counts the number of ribs jutting from her skin but he loses count and when he starts again, she rolls over to sleep on her stomach and he gives up the task. He can't sleep anyway, so he watches Arya for a while, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, the way her curves look under the covers. It seems like the first restful sleep she's had in forever.

It's a game they play with careful steps and rules. He pretends he doesn't _want_ to ask; she pretends there's nothing _to_ ask. Or is it a dance where they move together but don't touch? Is it a fight?

But of course, they don't fight anymore. They used to fight all the time, about films and clothes and his poor taste in just about everything, about Arya's insistence on moving into his flat since most of her things were already there, his refusal about what her family would think, about how to celebrate for her birthday, what to get tattooed on her skin, about – and he realizes this now – _nothing at all._ The fights always ended with her curt and red-faced with name-shouting, him silent and sullen with Tom and Hot Pie laughing from the sidelines.

Now he's grateful for whatever snatches he gets to spend with her between lengthy disappearances. Gendry can't imagine wasting a single minute fighting. Although now that he thinks about it, he misses them, their scuffles that degenerated into rolling on the floor trying to one up each other, or the yelling until they forgot what they even started arguing about.

Her eyelids flicker open, as though she's aware of his staring and Gendry can feel the tips of his ears turn red. He can make out the tiny sliver of sunlight from his window coming up in the grey flecked irises of her eyes. "Alright?" she asks, but he's not – he's completely fucking wrecked.

And because he's never had any control, and he might still be a little drunk, he blurts, "Arya, I lo-"

She clamps a hand over his mouth, moving faster than he had thought she could. "Shut up, stupid," she growls, brows drawn together, lines on her forehead. Her icy grey eyes melt the tiniest bit, giving way to something he thinks might be sorrow. "Please, Gendry. Let me finish my list first. Then you can say whatever you want."

He wants to ask what list, how long, why why why, but he bites his tongue and shuts his mouth.

::

It is the fifth time. It is the last time.

Arya finally uses her key.

She's already waiting when he opens the door and walks into the flat. He doesn't see her at first, curled up on the floor by the couch with her back against the wall, which is strange in itself because she's always been quiet when she wants to be – but she never hides. He nearly jumps when she says, "Gendry, I'm done. It's done."

Even with the lights still off, he can tell something is wrong, from the way her voice sounds thin and papery and _exhausted,_ from the way she's crumpled on the floor. "Arya?" he takes a step forward as his eyes adjust to the dark. He kneels beside her and only then does he notice the way she's hunched in on herself. "Arya?" he repeats louder, reaching for her and his hand comes away wet, wet and warm and red and-

"Oh gods, Arya."

"Shh, Gendry…" she trails off and he holds her close but there isn't enough light and he can't see and _this can't be happening._

Gendry's fingers fumble with his mobile when he dials, slick with her blood. The voice on the other end is soothing and Gendry babbles about needing an ambulance, somehow remembering his address even though Arya looks in too much pain for him to concentrate on anything else but making the hurt go away and his throat wants to close up.

He lets the phone slip from his grasp and tries to stop the bleeding, pulls off his shirt to stanch it even there's too much pooling on the floor and her jacket is soaked with it, and he has to struggle just to think straight. He doesn't notice when tears form in his eyes, blurring his vision.

"Arya, what happened, what happened?" Gendry's words run together.

"Lions with guns," she whispers and it doesn't make any sense to him. Arya suddenly shudders and he leans closer to stop the shaking, her hand clinging to the collar of his shirt with enough strength to permanently stretch it out of shape.

"I'm here now, you'll be okay. Just hold on," he pleads, burying his face in her hair, but even her hair is coated with blood and he can feel it on his face, the strands sticking together.

"You'll take care of them, won't you? Baby Rickon and lovely Sansa and Bra-" the last name is swallowed up by coughs, violent spasms racking up her body as her lungs wheeze and rasp for air before she can talk again, "-and Jon, oh, take care of them."

"I will, I'll do anything Arya, please just, _please,_ " he begs.

"Say it," Arya murmurs, and though she sounds faint, he knows what she wants.

"I love you," he finally tells her and she lets him. "I love you more than anything else in the world, Arya."

And she's stubborn, his beautiful fragile Arya, so stubborn that she laughs through her pain, through her last few breaths and she says, "I love you, too."

But that sounds too much like goodbye and he presses his lips to her, tasting blood and rust and metal. Gendry looks down at his hand where blood still seeps from the wound and he can hear sirens – they're so close, they're so fucking far away.

She still has a smile on her face.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," he chants, as if his words are magic or medicine, as if his words are going to bring her back, but all they do is echo back at him in reminder that there is no one left to listen.

::

There is no pounding at his door this time. There's a light knocking, gentle and contained. Gendry ignores it at first but it insists and he has to get out of bed eventually. He has a massive hangover, head feeling just about ready to burst, and he's aware how much like shit he must look.

"Who is it?" he asks in a phlegmy voice at the door.

"Sansa. Sansa Stark," the voice adds hesitantly, as if he wouldn't recognize just Sansa, as if Sansa is a common name and he knows hundreds of them.

He lets his eyes fall shut. _Shit_. Reluctantly, he opens the door and stands to the side, slurring his words when he says, "Come in, I suppose."

She walks past him, smelling clean and fruity and nothing like her sister. Her long red hair shines in the ridiculously bright sunlight and if her eyes are puffy and ringed with red through her make-up, he pretends not to notice. She sits with her ankles crossed on his sofa. "How are you?" she asks.

Gendry barks a short curt laugh without humor. He goes to the fridge and gets two cans of beer, slamming them down on the table, and sits on the chair across from her. He would make her tea but – fuck, he doesn't even have the energy to look for teabags. "What do you want, Sansa?"

Sansa runs her hands through her hair, looking nervous. Her eyes roam his flat, pausing on the mess of empty bottles on the kitchen counters, the overly clean floor and wood peeling where he'd scrubbed at it for hours with a steel scour. A ring glints on Sansa's finger when she collects her hands back in her lap, then reaches for the can of beer as if she can't keep still. "I wanted to talk," she says at last.

"About?" Arya would punch him if she knew how rude he was being with her.

"She came to you, not us."

"Wouldn't have helped either way," he rubs his chin and realizes he hasn't shaved in days.

"Do you know what she was doing?"

"She told me not to ask so I didn't."

Sansa takes a sip and wrinkles her nose. Arya had hated that beer. The can leaves a ring of moisture when she puts it back. She digs through her bag and pulls out a paper, smooths out the creases and pushes it across the table at him. "Jon and I figured it out a few weeks ago. She found them, every single one of them. Everyone involved in the murders. She's been killing them."

Gendry picks up the paper gingerly. There's a picture of her on the front page and it looks like something from five years ago; her hair is still long and there are no dark circles under her eyes. She's smiling. Gendry clenches his teeth and skims through the article: _Prominent party member found dead, bullet casings, list found in the pocket of the suspect, more on page 5._

He shuffles through to page 5 and Sansa begins, "There were multiple stab wounds on Cersei Lannister's body and the gun still in her hotel room, traces of Arya's blood on the window sill. What it comes down to is that Cersei bled out from the stabbing on her hotel room floor and Arya bled out from the gunshot-" Sansa's voice cracks, "-apparently here. The papers refer to you as an unsuspecting associate."

"I suspected," he mutters.

"Did, um," Sansa trails off. Gendry looks up to see her staring in the distance at nothing with wet glassy eyes.

"Did what?" Gendry prompts.

Sansa looks him straight in the eye. "Did she come to you often? Or, I mean, was that the first time?"

"You want to know if she just happened to come to my flat instead of her house because it was closer and she was dying, or if she meant to all along," Gendry says flatly. "And I would lie to make you feel better, but I'm not in the mood for lies. She spent the night with me several times."

Looking back down at her hands, she swallows visibly. "Several times?" she asks in a tiny voice. He can practically see the heartbreak on her face. "Why?"

He shrugs. "Sex, mostly. Food. Once for my laundry machine." The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth; he doesn't want to reduce her to this.

"Oh," her face falls.

"Look, Sansa, she loved you all a lot – maybe too much. She… she couldn't face you. That's how she felt. With all that blood on her hands, with more left to go, she came to me instead of you because she knew she couldn't leave again once she saw you all. After your mum and dad and Robb, everything was wrong and Arya-" it's the first time he says her name aloud since that night "-tried to set it right."

"It ended up killing her," Sansa whispers.

There is a scream somewhere in Gendry's throat that wants to let loose. He doesn't speak, just presses his lips together. They sit in that silence until he loses track of time, until the scream dies down into a whimper.

Only then does he talk again. "She helped pay for your present. She had a slice of wedding cake."

Sansa nods absently before abruptly standing. "Thank you, Gendry."

He stares at her. "For what?"

"For what you did for Arya, for what you meant to her. For being there when we couldn't be."

Gendry doesn't think Sansa knows what she's saying, that they're just words people say when they don't know what else to do. He hadn't done anything. He hadn't helped her or talked her out of it. He hadn't saved her. He doesn't deserve to be thanked.

"Come round ours sometime, yeah?" Sansa says, her blue eyes earnest.

Gendry nods. She would have liked that. "Sansa?" he starts, and she turns with her eyebrows raised. Gendry swallows. "Take care."

She smiles and he watches her walk out. He closes the door, slides down and folds in on himself, despairs because he will never again open it to her angry pounding, because he will never fight with her and she will never move her things into his flat, and they will never grow old together. She died in his fucking arms.

He thinks that he can never move on from this, that there _is_ no possible way to and if there is, he doesn't know it.

Arya would have known.

::

_Don't care if she's guilty, don't care if she's not  
She's good and she's bad and she's all that I've got._


End file.
